The Duel Read Online Free Page A

his shirt and ending in his yellow booties.
    As he was surveying the album and standing in front of the mirror, Samoylenko was in the kitchen and the vestibule beside it all the while, with no frock-coat or waistcoat on, his chest bared, worrying and drenched in sweat, fussing near the tables, preparing the salad, or some sort of sauce, or meat, cucumbers and onion for the okroshka, and still managing to angrily glare at the assisting valet and brandishing either a knife or a spoon at him.
    “Bring the vinegar!” he ordered. “Or, I mean, not vinegar, olive oil!” he yelled, stomping his feet. “Where are you going, you swine?”
    “For the oil, Your Excellency,” said the dumbfounded valet in a cracked tenor.
    “Hurry! It’s in the cupboard! Yes, and tell Darya to add dill to the jar of pickles! Dill! Cover the sour cream, you scatterbrain, or flies will get into it!”
    It seemed that the whole house shook when he yelled. When there were only ten or fifteen minutes remainingbefore two o’clock, the deacon would arrive, a young man, around twenty-two years of age, lanky, long-haired, sans beard and with barely detectable whiskers. Entering the drawing room he crossed himself before the icon, and then, smiling, extended his hand to Von Koren.
    “Hello,” the zoologist coldly replied. “Where have you been?”
    “Fishing for gobies on the pier.”
    “Well, of course … From the look of it, Deacon, you’re never going to get to work.”
    “Why say that? Work’s not a bear, it won’t wander off into the woods,” said the deacon, smiling and inserting his hands into the deep pockets of his white cassock.
    “There’s no one here to whip you!” sighed the zoologist.
    Another fifteen to twenty minutes passed, but dinner had still not been served, they could hear the valet running from the hall to the kitchen and back, his boots knocking as Samoylenko yelled:
    “Put it on the table! Where are you sticking it? Go wash it first.”
    The deacon’s and Von Koren’s hunger growing, they began to knock their heels on the floor, expressing their impatience as audience members in a theater box would. Finally, the door opened and the tortured valet announced: “Food’s ready!” They were met in the dining room by an angry Samoylenko, who was scarlet and had been thoroughly steamed by the stifling kitchen. He glared at them furiously and with an expression of horror on his face lifted the soup tureen from the pot of soup and poured them eacha bowl, and only when he was certain that they were eating heartily, and that the food was to their liking, did he sigh relief and sit down in his own deep armchair. His face became languid, buttery … Not rushing, he poured himself a small glass of vodka and said:
    “To the health of the younger generation.”
    After his conversation with Laevsky, Samoylenko constantly felt something weighing in the depths of his soul, from morning right up to dinner, regardless of his excellent mood. He felt sorry for Laevsky and wanted to help him. Drinking his small glass of vodka before having the soup, he sighed and said:
    “I saw Vanya Laevsky today. The man’s having a hard time of it. The material half of his life doesn’t bode well, but more importantly his psychological state is getting the best of him. I feel sorry for the fellow.”
    “If there’s anyone that I don’t pity!” said Von Koren. “If that gentle man were drowning, I’d get a stick to help him along: drown, brother, drown …”
    “Not true. You wouldn’t do that.”
    “Why do you think I wouldn’t?” The zoologist shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just as capable of doing a good deed as you are.”
    “And drowning a man is a good deed?” the deacon asked, laughing.
    “If it’s Laevsky? Yes.”
    “I think the okroshka is missing something …” said Samoylenko, trying to change the subject.
    “Words can’t describe how malevolent Laevsky is, he’sas malevolent to society as the cholera